(Spring 2023 Bruce C. Souders Contest Winner)

“I can’t sleep. Can you read to me?” she whispered.

The drowsiness buzzing through my skull eased from my body as excitement lit it awake. “Is it the same?” I whispered in return. 

A moonlit nod had me throwing the covers to the side and tip toeing quickly to my bookshelf. I couldn’t afford to wake the adults, after all. 

My small hands found the worn spine easily within the dark— how could I not? It was an extension of myself.

The tension of mom and dad’s illnesses had weighed heavily on our minds and bodies, creating a burden as great as Atlas’. Fatigue was an acquaintance, quickly growing into a friend. She and I were at each other’s throats because of the stress, but this seemed to be a truce: a time where we could come together and enjoy one another’s company.

My younger sister was a popular girl: pretty, outgoing, the life within a room. I was her antithesis: awkward, quiet, the living wallpaper. Being so close in age— I’m her elder by seventeen months— many mistook us for twins: the thought of being sisters was revolting enough. 

And yet, the insomnia brought her to me. She felt that I would be there for her in the secretive hours of night covered by dark blue hues and bright stars. She was right, for, under the constellations, we kept each other grounded with Tolkien’s The Hobbit. (Ironic, as it’s a fantasy.)

As I read about Bilbo’s adventure, I could feel her mind slowing, breaths softening, and spines contracting back into her skin. Sometimes I’d leave her sleeping against my shoulder: she was heavy as hell, and books don’t exactly bulk up the body. Sometimes, in those hours, I’d watch the tension melt from her face and peace reside there instead. Sometimes, I’d plant a kiss to her forehead, whispering that everything would be okay. 

I remember the feeling of burning in my eyes, throat, and chest. I remember the tingling of skin bruised and broken, the aching along my scalp, and the racing of my heart and blood pumping underneath. Did she feel the same sensations? Did she hurt in the same way I did? Did her venomous words sting her tongue like they burned my heart? It didn’t matter. Her hurt was nothing.

The aching soaked through my skin and set deep into my bones, heart, and mind. The darkness would hide my pain until the morning sun revealed its hideous nature. How hard would it be to hide this physical pain in early September? 

I pondered the idea and explanations as soft raps sounded at my beaten door. “Hey,” her muffled voice mumbled through the door. “I can’t sleep. Can I come in?”

My blood boiled briefly. How dare she come to me after— 

She came to me after all that?

I wobbled over to my door and cracked it open. She entered quietly; the only noise filling the small room was the clicking of the door, the shuffling of leaden feet, and the squeaking of my twin bed. For a while, we sat in silence, the tension thick after the fight— our worst fight. We both were still raw from our father’s funeral a few weeks prior. 

“Can you read to me?” my stubborn, outspoken, strong sister asked with a crack in her voice: a voice reserved for singing and laughing.

I sat for a few moments, my skin buzzing like a kicked hornet’s nest. As I turned, the buzzing ceased, calming upon seeing her face: the redness from yelling and screaming, stained with white tear streaks; the tousled hair from the tussling and pulling; and the fatigue written there. I nodded and stood, walking calmly to the bookshelf.

“Same one?” I asked, my voice squeaking despite trying to remain composed. 

Even with my back turned, I could hear her lips tremble. “Yeah,” she responded with a grounding huff.

I read Tolkien until her hiccuped sobs ceased. I read until her body fell against my own, slumping from all kinds of pain. I watched her quietly, tears sitting along my eyelids. Peace no longer resided on her face, but I still kissed her forehead and whispered,

“Everything will be okay.”